A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about the autumnal equinox.  In ancient times,  autumn, the harvest, was a time of great rejoicing, a celebration of the land's bounty.  After the arduous work of spring planting and summer cultivation, come harvest time, people could reap the fruits, so to speak, of what they had sown.  They could be grateful for the fecundity of the earth.

    

    The harvest reminds us that despite all that happens around us, life's rhythms will never change.  Altered expressions of them will perhaps emerge, but the underlying pattern remains the same.  Life's ways will be with us until life itself stops being.

    Until that happens, consider the harvest a beacon of hope, the hope embodied in the order implicit in a transcendently personal existence.  We love it, it loves us.  And God loves it all.

    Otherwise, it's all just an accident.